♥ PosetteForever ♥

Our story starts in a small bar, in a nondescript town on the unremarkable planet of Murgatroyd II. On a rickety stool sat R. Wilson Maloney, doing his best to get drunk. Actually, all he wanted to do was find the fastest way to get from the stool to the floor with only alcohol to guide him. He was not being successful. To be fair, his vision had doubled, but that was because a Genarian batter-bear had trodden on his glasses. Although Maloney had been using them at the time, he had decided not to pursue the matter any further. As the last person to upset the eight foot tall batter-bear had been turned into a human rug, he fervently hoped the Genarian would go out of it's way not to pursue the matter either. Maloney wasn't interested in saving his own skin, so much as all the associated bones and organs contained within.

With an expansive gesture, Maloney caught the attention of the booze-bot hovering behind the bar, and ordered another drink. The automaton deftly zoomed in, picked up Maloney's credit chip, slotted it into what passed for it's stomach, deducted the cost of the drink, added a tip to towards fuel, and spat the chip out. The tip for fuel was not really needed, for the smart young bastard that designed the Alco-Bot had discovered the true nature of perpetual bar-room motion. By getting the droid to suck in the air from the bar and condensing the alcohol fumes breathed out by the patrons, the thing was self-sufficient. Any overflow was pumped back into the nearest bottle. Some of the regular patrons had been drinking the same alcohol for the last twenty years. The only time the 'bots couldn't refuel in this fashion were during the bean-eating seasons. Several unfortunate explosions had curtailed that idea...

His credit chip safely back in his pocket, Maloney started in on the fresh pitcher of Alturian ale. Chipping off the froth with the complimentary chisel, Maloney imbibed heartily, and tried to remember why he was getting drunk. Rather unfortunately, he remembered.

Murgatroyd II was an agricultural planet, with the unfortunate distinction of being nutrient-poor. Originally the fertilizer shortage was to be solved by the clever use of conveniently orbiting phosphate asteroids. The first generation of Murgatroydians constructed a gargantuan propeller to spray the debris from asteroids pushed into the planets atmosphere over the widest area possible. This worked perfectly for the first few years until someone didn't do their calculations right. They dropped a three million tonne phosphate asteroid right on top of the propeller and that's when the shit hit the fan. Other than gaining an incredibly fertile new crater lake, the inhabitants of the one remaining city were back to square one until they realized a tremendous supply of potential fertilizer was being flushed out from under them literally. After doing their sums this time with a computer they realized they had a veritable inexhaustible reservoir of crude as they put it.
Civic pride made every Murgatroydian want to contribute. To make sure future generations wouldn't just go through the motions, they even wrote it into law. Each Murgatroydian had to donate their body-waste for the good of the planet. In fact there was a wide range of offenses that were dealt with by the sentence of ‘enforced evacuation'. In some severe cases the punishment handed out to the unfortunate victim would be the ‘electric chair' a computerized vacuum-driven toilet onto which the prisoner would be strapped. The computer would be programmed with the required amount of waste to be extracted from the prisoner and they would be left alone until it was done. It was considered an extraordinarily painful, excruciatingly lengthy and utterly undignified form of punishment.

To R. Wilson Maloney, this was the worst possible news he could have heard upon arriving on this planet for he was the local quadrant representative for Nixon Waterless Water Closets their slogan being ‘We'll zap your crap in a snap.' The first time he tried to demonstrate the Water Gate 4000 he was laughed out of the building. His trip had been an utter waste of time, he had nearly been pummeled by a Genarian, and, as he suddenly realized with a start, he had probably missed his shuttle flight. As Maloney lifted his arm to read his watch something that was rapidly becoming impossible as the drinks finally took hold his elbow swung round and jabbed the customer next to him. There was an almighty crash, and the entire bar became deathly quiet.

Still trying to focus on his watch, Maloney was unaware of the total stillness now enveloping the tavern. He did however notice the hand that was enveloping his throat. He looked up into the pale yellow face of a very unhappy Murgatroydian. Maloney's eyes passed the purple and orange sash denoting a high ranking official of the Murgatroyd Government. His gaze kept on going past the green badge stating the owner was Klepni De'Flet, Lord High Executioner Of Murgatroyd, and arrived at the mess on the floor.
Even as his eyesight reddened from lack of blood, Maloney noticed the jug. It was carved by hand out of a beautiful purple and green crystal that defied any further description. It was inset with pearls and gold filigree and other metals and stones too numerous to count. It had the Royal seal of Murgatroyd picked out in glow-stone on the onyx handle. And it was in at least thirty-seven pieces. Even allowing for the cracks in his spectacles that meant fifteen pieces too many. If the hand now lifting Maloney up from the ground was not so firmly clamped to his throat, he would have gulped.

Maloney was impressed with the speed and efficiency of the local justice system. Within an hour of being arrested for disturbing the peace, he had been detoxed, identified, booked and counseled. All but the last had gone smoothly and with utter courtesy and as Maloney was led into one of the perpetually busy night courts, he could care less about the lack of a lawyer. He wanted to defend himself. After all, his job was sales; and if he could sell water-powered toilets to the desert planet of Swelter, he could certainly sell himself to the jury. He noted with satisfaction that most of the cases being heard were also about bar fights and general drunkenness. It was obvious that even those who pleaded guilty were given token sentences; evidently the law was lenient towards those who worked and played hard. As his name was called by the bailiff, Maloney glanced at the jury, and couldn't help smiling. Without bothering to acknowledge the bench, Maloney began his spiel...

...the jury has found you guilty of wanton and malicious destruction of one of the legacies of battle that all Murgatroydian patriots cherish. Even allowing for your drunken state, there is no excuse for that kind of behavior. Especially when you are but a visitor to our planet.
Judge Klepni De'Flet slid his spectacles down the bridge of his nose and peered at Maloney, who was now chained to the dock in a state of high discomfort. With a barely audible sigh, the judge pointed to exhibit ‘D' on the bench in front of him.
You also ruined my second-best pair of shoes. But that is may be. Straightening up in his chair, he reached for a black cap from the dispenser under his desk, and faced Maloney with a dour expression.
Runcible Wilson Maloney, you have broken the laws and the trust of the people of this planet, and you shall be punished accordingly. I sentence you to be taken from this courtroom, to a place of confinement, where at dawn you will be put upon the electric chair until such time as your debt to society is paid in full. Take him away.

Rendered speechless by the verdict, Maloney finally managed to find his voice as two hulking bailiffs unchained him from the stand and started to haul him away.
Wait Wait a minute! Why is my sentence so utterly severe all I did was break a pitcher!
Judge De'Flet crooked a bony finger at Maloney, and the bailiffs shoved him down to the front of the Judges bench. With a malevolent grin, the Judge spoke.
There is a centuries-old saying that you should keep in mind, as they strap you to that toilet tonight; A pitcher is worth a thousand turds...

(Ummmm. Sorry? Another of my R. Wilson Maloney shaggy-dog stories. Written in 1985 and dropped into a drawer until now. I've a bunch of these things... I can't help myself!)

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How can you bear to write them ??

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